Little things ...

In case anyone was in any doubt, hotels are not suitable long-term accommodation for anybody, least of all for families. Being cramped together in one room, in often poor quality accommodation, with every aspect of life controlled by others with no freedom, flexibility or choice seriously impacts on people's wellbeing. This is true of all the hotels and hostels used for temporary accommodation: whether through the asylum process or in local council temporary accommodation. 

The hotel with which I have had the closest relationship over a long period of time, and which is, even compared to the other serco hotels, the worst one locally, is in the process of being emptied. Almost all the families have been there for many, many months. Despite everything that is wrong with their current accommodation, and the list is very long, they are now facing upheaval and uncertainty. There is no taking into account of the tentative roots they have put down here: they are being scattered across the region. They will have to find new support networks, new communities, new school places, and of course the indeterminate wait for the home office to make decisions on their cases continues. Despite the stress of all of this, there is excitement in the air too: their new accommodation probably won't be great, but it will offer some of the little things we take for granted like being able to cook the food they like on a schedule to suit themselves. It will be a place they can call home which a hotel can never really be.

We have built relationships with these families. Some, undoubtedly will keep in touch, but I have been doing this long enough to know that, whatever we say to each other now, many I may never see again, and that too has to be ok. The letting go doesn't invalidate that which mattered at a moment in time.  

Over the time we have known them, there is much we have not been able to do or change. So much is beyond our control and in the hands of those who don't care enough to make the changes that would make life more bearable. The campaigning and advocacy is essential but in the current climate, it ofttimes feels like the best it might do is to slightly slow the direction of travel which is heading the opposite way to where we would like it to. As the growing backlog of claims and a failure to provide suitable accommodation has meant more and more families have been accommodated in hotels our time and energies have been spread more thinly and we have felt pulled in different directions. It is very easy to be aware of all of this: of the stuff that makes life hard, the stuff that we can't do anything to improve; the times we have to say, sorry, no, I can't do that.

But as we said our goodbyes, that was not what the families remembered. 

The heartfelt thank yous and the fond farewells felt entirely genuine. I was deeply touched by the little notes and drawings some of the children gave me and the things some of the parents, struggling with their limited English, wanted to say as we said our goodbyes.  

I believe they remembered the listening ear and the checking in; the empathy and the shoulders to cry on; the little gifts; the welcome sessions, English lessons and lots and lots of cake; the days out and opportunities to relax; the smiles and the laughter and the hugs; the fleeting conversations and WhatsApp messages; the accessing of school places, the filling of forms, the explanations of things they hadn't understood; the advocacy and trying to improve their situation, even in the places where it felt like it made little difference; the care and concern. 

I believe they remembered the gestures that said someone cared about them and they hadn't been entirely forgotten as they waited in a faceless system. I believe they remembered the being there: not all the time, perhaps, not as much as we'd have liked, maybe, but nonetheless, they remembered the times when we were there. 

They remembered all the things that often seem so small. 

Sometimes I find this hard to remember but sometimes I very much know it to be true ... Sometimes the little things are actually the big things. And I have to keep believing that those little things, they really matter.

Five years

I've never been much good at keeping a diary. It still sometimes amazes me that I have managed to keep my blog going so consistently for so long.

And then five years ago I got a "one line a day" diary.

I wrote the first entry on 1st April 2018

So that's it, Northern Leg 2018 is over with all the exhaustion and emotion it entails. Missing half the week made it a very strange experience in many ways this year but maybe it helped me appreciate the value of this little community a bit more.

With each entry only allowing space for a couple of sentences, it felt like a manageable undertaking, although of course it means much is left unsaid. The limited space certainly doesn't lend itself to great long introspective reflections on the whys and wherefores of life so, in contrast to my blog, it is mostly much more a "this happened / I did that" factual record. That doesn't mean it is totally devoid of emotion: albeit briefly, it does express some of the joys and struggles of recent years. Another difference from my blog is that it is not intended to be public and there are certainly things contained in its pages which I wouldn't share here but which I hope, in years to come, I will be glad to have written down. 

With each dated page having space for a short entry for five consecutive years, as it has gradually filled up it automatically affords a look back and comparison to preceding years: scanning through past entries has been both a distraction and a motivation in helping me to stick at it.

There are a few missing entries, but not many. There are many, many more which have been back-filled after the event, often a week or more at a time. But it stands as a relatively comprehensive record of at least the headlines of much of what I have been up to since 2018.

It has captured some of the big things that have happened; but perhaps even more importantly it has captured some of the many little things that make up my full and richly blessed life. 

On 31st March 2023, I filled the final space.

It feels appropriate that the last entry is on the day I am setting off for NL given the first post was getting back from it. Managed to get a few things finished off including some tidying before setting off. Met C at New Street. Arrived at Keyworth in good time. Chatting, dinner, intros, liturgy, pub, whisky club. I am, I think, glad to be here.

Having managed to establish a habit, I have bought myself another edition. I wonder what the next five years will bring.

Re-prioritising prayer

For nine years, during my time at Carrs Lane and slightly beyond it, I was committed to a routine of public prayer; in person and later online. In fact, for much longer, because our time in the Philippines was certainly rhythmed around prayer, and to a lesser extent there was a culture of daily reflection time at Corrymeela. Further back, in the privacy of our own home, we had also tried to instil such a rhythm to shape our days. 

And every day, I showed up. Of course there were interruptions and odd occasions where I couldn't but generally, day after day, I showed up. I put myself intentionally in that space. I paused to be still. 

And I knew, as I have written about here more than once, it mattered. 

With varying degrees of success, I found a rhythm that worked towards the end of last year, but thus far in 2023, it is something I have failed to really re-establish. And while I couldn't pinpoint, on any given day, exactly how; over time, I think I am feeling the effects. I think it is a factor in feeling more drawn into and dragged down by the enormity of the world's problems. I think it is a factor in finding it harder to let go of the things I cannot do and in getting the right balance of those I can.  

And so I am reminding myself that waking up to prayer is infinitely better than waking up to a rather depressing twitter feed and an email inbox I never feel fully on top of! The importance of good company and of laughter I wrote about in my previous post are parts of the solution. This is the other bit.

Some people will have made Lenten commitments which are now drawing to an end. I didn't this year, but I am making an Easter one. I am away for the next week, walking Pilgrim Cross, which will be a valuable breathing space, and on my return I am reprioritising prayer. Not at the expense of anything else, quite the contrary. I believe it will help me reprioritise everything else as well. I believe it will help me be the best possible version of the person I am trying to be. 

Just the weekend I needed

I have always aspired for this blog to be a relatively honest reflection of life: not the sugar-coated version of reality that social media so often unhelpfully presents. So in that spirit I admit, last week had some tough moments where I felt distinctly disheartened about the state of the world (or more specifically, British politics around the issue of migration).

It probably didn't help that due to the Birmingham bus strikes, I spent more time at home than I usually would. I do like having my own space and generally quite enjoy my own company but I am definitely an extrovert and I probably had too many days with too little people time; and while I had plenty I should have been getting on with, that meant I had lots of time to read, watch and listen to analysis about the government's new anti-refugee plans. It feels important to keep abreast of these things and many of those whose analysis I was following shared my perspectives on the subject, but nonetheless, too much of it can get a little draining after a while. I know only too well the impact of these repeated, hostile announcements on people I care about very much. I am also well aware of the risk of the knock-on impact on me.   

I'm not always very good at accepting or acknowledging when I am finding things difficult, but I admit, parts of Thursday, particularly, were really quite hard. However, in the afternoon I went out for a walk in the sunshine and then a friend called round, both of which definitely helped perk me back up.

And then it was Friday. There were still no buses but I hadn't entirely put life on hold. While the meeting I was supposed to be going to ended up being a slightly abortive trip, a combination of limited transport options and deliberate choice meant it involved two decent length walks in fairly attractive parts of the city: mostly in bright spring sunshine and managing, fortunately, to completely avoid the worst downpours. I also met up with three different people for a cup of tea, delicious lunch, a walk and curry for dinner respectively, all of whom are people whose company I value, and I appreciated the chance to chat and catch-up. It was just what I needed. 

It had long been on the calendar that my mum was coming to visit at the weekend. Mutual friends also came round on Saturday afternoon and the house was full of conversation and noise and mess: exactly how I like it. In the evening we were at the Hippodrome for the live show of 'I'm Sorry I haven't a clue' which was exactly the sort of clever silliness anyone who knows the show would expect and I laughed all evening (and got a free kazoo, what's not to love!). It would have been hard to find a better tonic. It was a late-ish night followed be a lazy morning, and then out for lunch with my sister and her partner who were also in Brum for the weekend. By the time I got home mid-afternoon, apart from a few bus tickets to sort for another week of school, the laid back feel continued, and I even finished off a jigsaw puzzle. 

For three days, I mostly didn't scroll through twitter, I mostly talked about things other than politics (and when I did, those conversations were supportive and helpful), I mostly switched off. I spent time with people I value, who probably had no idea how much their company boosted my spirits. And thus it was that I was back ready to face another week. The news hasn't got any more upbeat; the struggles I watch some of my dearest friends experience haven't become any easier ... but it'll take more than a particularly evil Home Secretary to crush me.

Hope is ...

During our residential last week we had a lot of fun, but we also shared and heard about difficult subjects and were reminded that the political climate can feel hostile, disheartening and overwhelming. We wanted people to go away inspired and full of ideas of how to speak out and to stand in solidarity with people seeking sanctuary. Doing so is important, but not always easy; and looking after ourselves and one another is crucial. Awareness of the struggles and challenges is essential: but so is holding on to the hope.

So instead of spending our final session considering campaign actions or writing to our MPs, we thought and shared about hope and wrote poetry together.

Most of the poetry I share on my blog is written by me but this isn't, or not mostly. It is written by teachers and chaplains and young retreat centre volunteers and by people seeking sanctuary from all over the world. It is written by people who love words, and people who struggle with them, people who are full of hope and people clinging to hope by their finger nails. 

Today is World Poetry Day, and the beginning of Spring. There could be no better day to share this piece, written collaboratively on that day.

Hope is…

Hope is a mix of colours

Hope is green like new growth and signs of life in springtime

Hope is baby-blue like the beautiful sky filled with clouds before the sun shines

Or after a storm when the dark clouds have finally passed

Hope is sky blue, bright and without limits

Hope is yellow, like a field filled with buttercups and sunshine

Like the daffodils that remind us winter is near its end

Hope is dazzling yellow like the first rays of sunshine at the end of a long dark night,

Like the sun that each day rises again, announcing the beginning of a new day

Hope is yellow and promises to return to everyone’s life

Hope is orange like beautiful summer flowers

And like the sun setting on the past and rising on the new tomorrow

Hope is orange because when you can see the sunshine you have hope

Hope shines bright like coming out of a tunnel and seeing the light,

Hope is white like a lamp glaring and bright like a spotlight that shines through the dark, guiding and encouraging

And sometimes hope is black like the night sky scattered with stars

Hope is golden and shimmery, elusive but oh so precious

Soft, bright light like the day between the darkness

Hope is a brightly shining rainbow, an array of different colours

Hope is like a mountain range, steeply gradiented, but level at the top

firm underfoot, offering support;

Like a journey, hope is many-sided,

It has its ups and downs and guides your path

Hope is round and bright like an unending roundabout leading us to forever happiness, destroy lingering fright

Hope is malleable and strong,

It is the ocean, inescapable and powerful, a true force of nature

It is like fresh waters that everyone surely needs

Hope is wide and hard like the sun battling through a thunderstorm

Hope is shimmering and infinite like the stars in a dark night sky

Hope is soft and smooth like the calming effect of stroking the feathers of pigeon

It is cushioning yet firm like that old teddy bear that is hard to the touch but brings comfort inside

It is soft, warm and all-encompassing like a gentle embrace, never letting go

Hope is soft and gentle like a hand leading and helping us carry on

Hope is heart-shaped, soft and tender like meeting ones family again with love

Warm and fuzzy like a family meal where everyone belongs together as one

Hope is star-shaped, hard with a soft centre like a chocolate-covered caramel

Or soft but with a steely-hard core like fluffy candyfloss around its wooden stick

Hope is flexible and static like 6 and 9 depending on the angle you are viewing it

Hope is intangible but noticeable,

It is large and has no limits,

Unshaped and uncoloured like freedom.

Hope is fragile yet strong depending on so many things beyond my control

Hope is the generator of emotions and the basis of the charm of life

Hope is the sunlight that you can find in the day

and the moonlight in the night

Hope is a lighthouse

A light in the darkness

Hope is believing, is having faith

Hope is expectation, desire, and trust

Trust in the process

Hope is optimism

Hope is a consistent motivation

Hope is powerful

Hope is strength

Hope is not letting go

Hope is the key of life

Hope is a thread

Hope is an outstretched hand, a guiding companion

Hope is beautiful

Hope is ours to be shared

The second greatest gift one person can give to another, and the greatest is love

Hope is the only thing that shines, a point of light in everyone’s mind, among all the bad things, all the darkness

Hope is life

And hope is a lifeline

Hope is a journey to the future

Hope is

Anger ... and the antidote

Not content with the dreadful anti-refugee laws they introduced last year, the government are at it again with their even more hideously awful Illegal Migration Bill, which they seem to be determined to rush through parliament without proper scrutiny despite widespread concerns about its legality (not to mention its morality).

I am not a lawyer, so I am not going to comment on the legality of it, instead I'd point anyone who wants a legal analysis to https://freemovement.org.uk/what-is-in-the-illegal-migration-bill/

Considerable discussion has revolved around the impracticality and unworkability of the proposals, but I am not going to comment on that, either, because for me at least that is a side issue to what is wrong with it.

Legality and workability aside, the new bill, and the rhetoric that surrounds it, heralds a dark day for the moral compass of our nation. 

Those who seek sanctuary on our shores are among the world's most desperate people. Those who entrust their lives to the hands of people smugglers wouldn't do so if they thought they had any other choice. Those who enter by "irregular means", who risk their lives on a small boat across the channel, who face the fear of hoping fake paperwork will get them over the border, would not be doing so if they felt they had any other option. 

They have suffered more than I will ever know or imagine. They have left behind an entire life to start again with nothing but their character and their resilience. They believe in a Britain which upholds human rights, dignity, safety and freedom: I wish I still did too. They make up in total approximately 0.6% of the people currently residing in the UK. They are, it seems, an easy target. 

The new bill strips almost all rights and protections from this tiny group of people. Anyone who arrives on our shores by a means deemed irregular as of last week faces a lifetime of perpetual limbo; couple with the threat of deportation to a country deemed "safe". The ever-lengthening processing times of asylum claims means I have see the destructive impact of prolonged uncertainty. The idea of that continuing indefinitely as we as a country refuse to assess the validity of someone's need for safety and commit to offering them the sanctuary they require is simply appalling.

Don't get me wrong... I too would like to stop the boats. I don't want anyone else to drown in the channel. I don't want anyone else to have their sleep disturbed by flashbacks full of fear. I don't want anyone else to say that even though to stay meant certain death, they wish they had never come. But this is not the way to do it. 

And so I am very angry, and deeply sad, and somewhat afraid about the direction the country I want to love seems to be headed. 

And yet, and yet ... 

The Monday before last, as Braverman and Sunak put the finishing touches to their speeches ahead of launching the bill in parliament the following day, I was in the community hub at the REP theatre, gathered around a long roll of paper, pulling together ideas for a play. We shared stories and we laughed a lot. We contributed suggestions and ironed out creative differences. I watched as people who I had known to be hesitant and hidden presented their ideas with such clarity and confidence. I revelled in knowing that this show, when it comes together, will be entirely their own ideas in their own voice. 

The Monday just gone, as the second reading was rushed through parliament this week, I was in the midst of three wonderful days away with some of the most incredible people I know. We brought together people who had never met who left three days later as friends. We played probably the most hilarious games of Uno I have ever experienced. We shared stories and experiences: the incidental and the profound. We sat down and ate together. We offered a safe space to hold tears and lots and lots of laughter. We wrote poetry. We learned from one another. We braved the rain and enjoyed the sunshine. We created "loving chaos like a family" (not my words).

I will keep being angry. 

But I will keep finding joy and hope too.

All of them are needed to play my part in building the world I believe in.

Snow day!

Today was due to be a relatively busy day: a school visit, followed by the stories group, together with making sure everything was finalised and ready for the next "Festival of Encounter", and packing for a weekend with friends I haven't seen since 2019.

And then Birmingham woke up to a covering of snow which called off first the school visit and then the stories group (although as it turned out, by the afternoon the sun was out and the snow well on the way to disappearing).

I could, or possibly even should, have used the unexpected extra time to catch-up on the never-ending admin overload. There was a bit of that thrown into the mix, but mostly, I didn't.

Instead I built a snowman. 

And then got my painting stuff out for the first time in weeks. 

There are still emails that need to be answered ... but there always will be. On balance, I think it was a very good use of the day.

Why it's all worth while

I was about to start this post by saying 'the last couple of months have been exceptionally busy', but stopped myself on the basis that it was definitely going to be a misuse of the word exceptional, when there has in fact been nothing out of the ordinary. But it has been busy nonetheless: which is not a complaint, it is simply a fact. I wouldn't want it any other way.

In the midst of said busy-ness it can be easy to get caught up in the ever-lengthening to do lists and nitty-gritty of the everyday. It can be easy to focus on juggling multiple things at the same time or diving straight from one thing into the next. It can be easy to dwell on the enormity and unsolvability (which might not really be a word!) of the overarching issues. 

It can be easy to forget to pause and to prioritise. To forget to celebrate the precious little moments shared and appreciate the baby steps forward. To forget to remind ourselves what we are doing and why. 

Because yes, the last couple of months have been busy, and yes, of course there have been some struggles and frustrations in the mix, but they have mostly been busy with very many beautiful things, including, in no specific order: 

• Birthday cakes and candles
• Being alongside people in the nerves and excitement of first days at school
• Early morning starts accompanied by beautiful sunrises
• Phone calls and zoom calls and the connections they enable 
• A bit of DIY, a lot of sorting and tidying, and a house very much feeling like a home
• The laughter, tears, anger and hope of sharing stories with new groups of people in new place
• A cathedral filled with prayer and unity, and the connections that make it possible
• Reading good books
• Messages to and from all sorts of people and the holding of the relationships to which they witness
• Plans made, paper work done, spreadsheets updated, expenses paid  
• Witnessing or becoming aware of lots of little gestures of welcome by lots of different people just quietly getting on with doing their thing
• Finding school uniform that fits, and watching children and young people wear it with pride
• Taking a young person on their first ever train journey and knowing that on their second ever train journey they managed just fine on their own
• A bit of editing and proof-reading, and a bit of watching people grow beyond the support they once needed and start to trust their own abilities and make their way in the world
• A space to pray in gold, and green and purple
• Meeting new people, and scratching new countries off a map
• Cups of tea and conversations: the silly, the superficial and the serious 
• Down time and in between times of doing not very much
• Schools saying yes again and again
• Finding a place in a new faith community, and space for deep reflections with an existing online one 
• Hearing long-awaited good news for people I care about
• Every number in every column adding up as it is supposed to
• The anticipation of new projects as they start to take shape
• The words "report submitted on time" appearing next to our entry on the charities commission website.
• Board games and card games and associated fun and laughter with different groups of people
• Sharing in good news stories and being entrusted with more difficult ones.
• Lots of painted faces and the smiles behind them
• Staying connected with and reconnecting with friends 
• Opportunities to cook and eat and celebrate together, creating chaos but also community

The pausing matters. The remembering matters. Because this, and so much more, is why the busy-ness is, in fact, all worth while.

Snippets from a time away

I've recently come back from a few days away in the beautiful Derbyshire countryside and it probably says something about what a short break has done for my energy levels that I've been thinking about a number of disparate things that could potentially turn into blogposts. Rather than store them up and turn each into a full post I thought I'd share the snippets, just as they are, unrelated by anything other than the trip that inspired them. 

The needs for breaks and balance

Knowing that I wouldn't need to be at one of the hotels sorting out bus fares for school children on the Monday morning of half-term week, and that the REP wouldn't be available for our Stories session prompted me to think it would be a good opportunity to go away for a couple of days. The idea floated around for little while before, at fairly short notice, I booked something. I knew I was at the point of needing a break: I work hard and often push myself to my limits, but I think I have also got better over time at stepping back from the edge, whether that's by building in the balance of less busy days or weeks, or by taking time away. 

That said, I got to Friday evening half-wishing I wasn't going away the following day: there were too many things I wanted to fit in before I went away; and I questioned how I could possibly afford to 'give up' four days of valuable time. 

All of which was, to be fair, a sure and certain sign that my original decision to go away was the right one and I was right to stick to it and make sure I did in fact have a proper break. Sometimes, we, or at least I, need to remind ourselves that we are not indispensable and most things can in fact not get done, or can at least wait.  

Time off, intrusions accepted: on saying no, and sometimes saying yes

It was a concrete decision when I got on the train to put away my phone and read a book instead of scrolling through social media or "just finishing off" that email or two. It was the right transition into my brief time away and I found putting myself in a different physical space meant I was able to move into a different headspace too.

I didn't look at social media or for the most part my emails. I successfully ignored my diary and my to do list. I mostly only got my phone out of my pocket to take photos. I didn't set an alarm in the mornings. I went out for a couple of long walks, ate good food, finished a book and started another. I sat and drank cups of tea without feeling I should be doing something else at the same time.   

By and large, my "switching off" was successful.

Before I went away I had already decided that there was one work meeting that was important enough that I would attend it. I knew there was a temptation that would move me back into a different headspace: so it was an intentional and concerted effort that I snapped myself straight back out of work mode: my daysack was packed up before it started and I was out of the house for a long walk as soon as it finished. 

There were plenty of messages I didn't reply to or issues that I parked until I got home, but on one of the evenings, I was contacted by someone in a difficult situation which I decided I would do what I could to help with. A google search, a few suggestions, a phone call to someone else, a couple of messages to check back in, an issue resolved. It was, I believe, the right decision.  

Switching off and saying no is important. But sometimes so is saying yes. The challenge is discerning when each is the right call. I am sure I don't always get it right, but I am trying to.

The great outdoors and a trusty pair of trainers

Way back in 2020, a year which is mostly best forgotten, I started making a concerted effort to get outdoors everyday: cooped up indoors, I was determined to make the most of my permitted hour of daily exercise! It was something I stuck to throughout various incarnations of lockdown restrictions and for quite some time afterwards. When I was seeking out the positives in relation to that whole covid saga, I remember this was definitely one of mine and one I intended to take forward into whatever semblance of normality followed. But while there is still a reasonable amount of walking built in to my routine, it is definitely, perhaps inevitably, something I have allowed to drift in recent months. A lot of my walking more recently has been to get from A to B which, while not without value, is still different to walking for walking's sake. Likewise my bike, which had a long stretch of being my main form of transport, has definitely had fewer outings recently. 

The walks I went on during my few days a way were a little more than just a stroll along the canal though. On both of the full days I was there, I headed out for long walks which took up the best part of the day: I'm not sure on precise distance but my best estimate is about 12 to 15 miles each day, along footpaths and country roads, far away from the hustle and bustle which accompanies my normal life. I have written, often, about my love of living in Birmingham, and I find it hard, now, to imagine living somewhere without its vibrant diversity and busy-ness. Whatever may have been the case in the past, I no longer think I would like to live somewhere more rural, but I do enjoy spending time out in the countryside, and I do enjoy long walks, away from screens and all the other distractions of the everyday and the feeling of being the right kind of physically tired at the end of the day.

Short walks and long ones, finding green in the city and finding real green outside of it: all these things are important to me and I'm reminded to keep bumping them up my priority list.

Industrial past in a rural idyll

From Belper, where I was staying, one of my walks took me along the Derwent Valley Heritage Way to Matlock. It is a beautiful walk through quiet countryside. Rolling hills, a gently meandering river and trees silhouetted against the sky. The accompanying sound track was mostly birdsong. For long stretches of it, away from the population centres, I saw virtually no-one else. And yet at intervals, there were reminders of a busier, more industrial, past. 

The industrial revolution plays an important part in Birmingham's history too, but that is easily reconciled with the current landscape. It is much more difficult, now, to imagine this quiet countryside as the busy industrial heartland it once was. This was the home of major feats of engineering and significant industrial development. And yet now, that seems so far distant and even the relics of it: old mill buildings, chimneys, canals and disused railways seem at home in this rural idyll, belying their history. 

I'm sure there is something deep and meaningful to say about all that but I'll leave it as a simple observation.

Signs of spring, signs of hope

A number of the photos I took over the last few days reflect the fact that I find the intricate shapes and patterns of tree branches made visible by winter beautiful. But while most of the trees still had bare branches, my walks this past few days were surrounded by signs of spring: leaf buds on hedgerows, patches of snowdrops, crocuses and narcissi beginning to open, the sound of birdsong. I know I was, for February, probably exceptionally lucky with the weather, but I was bathed in blue skies and hints of warmth in the air. The clocks may not yet have changed, but I certainly appreciated the early evening light with the days definitely lengthening, and the sun setting noticeably later than those dark depths of December.

This isn't actually just an observations from the last few days: although more time outdoors, and more intentionally being present in the moment perhaps heightened my observations of it; but it is something I have been aware of, and tried to be deliberately attentive to in recent weeks. Even in inner city Birmingham, spring flowers are beginning to poke through. My regular routine now involves an early start on Monday mornings, and a forty minute (each way) walk, and while I haven't always been overly enamoured when the alarm goes off, I have seen some incredibly beautiful sunrises ... and there has also been something precious about watching the days get longer: I took particular note a couple of weeks back when for the first time it was already light as I set off. 

Spring is definitely on its way. 

Salt and Light, Earth and World

Despite being only a short text, Matthew 5: 13 - 16 gives us two powerful images. Hot on the heels of the beatitudes, it continues to explore the types of people Jesus’ followers are expected to be. I say expected to be, but one thing I noticed when reflecting on the text is that, at least in English, the conjugation that is attached to both these images of salt and light is “you are” … not you will be, or you should be, or you must be, or try to be... I wonder if that is significant?

I know the key part of these images is probably salt and light … but the next thing I found myself wondering about was earth and world: you are the salt of the earth, and the light of the world. I have checked, and they are different words in Greek too. Earth and world are not exactly synonyms, although in some contexts they work as such: they have overlapping but different meanings and I wonder whether it is significant that both are used here. To my mind, earth carries more of a sense of physical substance, the very stuff of the planet, whereas world has to do perhaps more with the people. My little bit of research bears out that this reflects the different meanings in Greek too. Earth is used to translate γῆς “ges”, derived from the world for soil and by extension the substance of the globe; world translates κόσμου “kosmou” which comes from a base word meaning “orderly arrangement" but by extension is used to refer to the moral order of the world.

For me, even though it is perhaps not the part of this text we usually focus on, I think it probably matters. I guess perhaps it struck me because I have been thinking quite a bit about what incarnation really means. It reaffirms the centrality of incarnation. We are called to a faith that is present in and of the earth and the world: our faith is to be something physical and embodied not just of the spiritual or moral realm.

The two images of salt and light also mirror this. Salt is very much a product of the physical world: a concrete noun as I would teach children in primary school: something that can be touched, held, felt. Light, meanwhile is ephemeral: something we can see and experience but can’t grasp hold of, something that literally slips through our fingers. What does to mean that our faith is made up of both of these aspects? Is it important?

There is one more thing I want to say about this pair of images. I think our, or at least my, first response to them is to think of the immediately positive associations with both salt and light: adding flavour, making visible colour and beauty… and I am certainly not questioning the validity of these aspects of what these images represent.

But they are both images that have a potentially more uncomfortable side too. Salt, rubbed in to wounds, as it would have been at the time, would be excruciatingly painful: which is not to deny it’s valid antiseptic properties … although I’m glad we have found better solutions! The use of bright or continuous light is a recognised form of torture but even without going to those extremes, we probably all have the experience of emerging into very bright light after being in darkness, which leaves us blinking and shielding our eyes.

I am convinced that being salt and light means adding colour and flavour and life and joy to those around us; but I am also convinced when there are times when being salt and light does not mean shying away from the discomfort they may bring.

I wonder how easy is it to simultaneously do and be both?

(https://faithjustice.org.uk/bible)

Finding church again

My faith is very important to me but church ... I often struggle with church.

When I first moved out from Carrs Lane, I continued to exist on the edges of it for a while before leaving completely; and actually, since long before that, running Sunday school gave me an excellent excuse to rarely have to sit through a Sunday service.

And then I walked away, and had a bit of a gap where I didn't go to church at all. But this blogpost isn't going to be about all the things I find difficult about the institutional church, of which there are many. 

Rather it is to reflect on the fact that, in some indefinable way, I missed it ... and not just for want of having something to moan about ... because frankly politics provides plenty of material for that!

There is a church a few doors away from where I live now. It is ever so slightly further than I had to travel from the flat to the church room, and I can't quite justify going in my slippers, at least not at this time of year, but I could probably roll out of bed fifteen minutes before the service starts and still make it on time.

I think partly, as I am aware I am intending to live here for the foreseeable future, I want in some way to connect to, belong in this local community and church may be one way of doing that. I think also, for all the failings of the church, I do, it turns out, sort of want to be part of a faith community.

And so, after moving in, I went along. My intention was to slip in quietly at the back, get a feel for whether it was somewhere I might want to attend, wander away again if it wasn't, perhaps try somewhere else. I took the total attendance that morning to 8. I was never going to be anonymous or unnoticed.  

In many ways it is, as you would perhaps expect or hope for a congregation that size, very informal. The chairs are in a semi-circle around the altar, I have heard the person leading ask who wants to do a reading just before the service starts, and even ask what hymn we should sing next part way through. Some of the reflections or sermons have felt very conversational in style. And yet in the midst of that informality, there is also a sense of reverence and prayerfulness which feels fitting.   

There is value in going somewhere new. It has made me think about the fact that I have definitely spent time in churches where that balance has felt the opposite (and to me at least wrong) way round: a lot of formality of styles or structures, but somehow without managing to create an atmosphere of prayerful reverence. 

I am not particularly musical: my vague attempts at learning an instrument as a child were never very successful and although I did sing in a church choir when I was younger, I'm under no illusions that they weren't exactly picky; and I know that my leading of the singing assemblies and school choir at one of the schools I taught at was far more to do with being able to command a hall full of kids with energy and enthusiasm than to do with musical ability! Lack of talent not withstanding, I do really enjoy singing with other people. Church is one of the few places, at least in my experience, where that is a thing and although I hadn't really realised I'd missed it, I was glad to be back sharing in that experience. 

The church is a joint URC / Anglican one, but the liturgy I have experienced there so far has been predominantly Anglican. It is a long time since I have regularly attended an Anglican church (and aside from my general issues with church I have plenty of specific complaints about the Church of England!) and yet I think I may have to admit to something reassuring and warm in the familiarity of words, prayers and responses which, many years later, still roll off my tongue. Perhaps, for all my recognition of the richness of the different churches which have fed me and expanded my understanding and experience of my faith over the years, I am more deeply rooted in a tradition than I care to admit.

With a congregation of about a dozen, max, there is certainly nowhere to hide, but as far as I can tell, no-one is trying to. I was greeted by a slightly shocked (but not unfriendly) sounding "you came back!" when I appeared the second time. I have been only a handful of times. There may be people I haven't met yet, but I think I have had at least a brief conversation with all those I have. Most of them know my name, I know many of theirs. I suspect most of them have known each other for years but they have drawn me into conversations and made me feel welcomed and included.

All in all, it feels like it might just suit me.

It is early days. I'm sure before long I will find plenty of things which irritate me. But for now, I am glad to be back.

Don't be scared of me

This weekend was #pray24brum, Birmingham's celebration of the week of prayer for Christian Unity, with the theme "Do Good, Seek Justice." 

At the prayer breakfast that began the second day I was one of several people asked to speak for one minute, reflecting on the theme, about my vision for the city / country / world in 2023. 

I didn't write a script, so I don't have a record of exactly what I said, and it probably wasn't entirely coherent anyway; but this is the recent encounter I reflected on and the dream it inspired ...

A couple of weeks ago I was leaving and locking up at the end of a Stories group session in the city centre. It was early evening but, being December, pitch dark. I happened to glance across at a guy who was sat on the steps nearby. As I looked across he said "don't worry, you don't need to be scared of me"

As it happens, having spent many years living in the city centre, encountering all kinds of people, I wasn't in fact, scared. I didn't glance across in fear. But I was struck by how he felt he had to engage with me. That his assumption was that my assumption would be that he was someone to be nervous of.  

It saddened me that he probably lives much of his life assuming other people are afraid or suspicious of him. And it saddened me even more that he is probably right. That many of those who glance in his direction, and let's face it, many of those exiting our church buildings, would indeed be afraid.

As a positive aside, the fact that he opened a conversation, (which I confess, I probably wouldn't have done), meant we had a brief chat that would probably otherwise not have happened, I learned a little about his life, and I now know how much he likes chocolate milk.

So back to that dream or vision of justice for the coming year ...

There's a quote that says "justice is what love looks like in public". So that implies that seeking justice is about seeking to love.

Very often, I think the opposite of love is not hatred, but fear. The bible reminds us constantly to "not be afraid". If it is there so frequently, I don't think that's because it is something easy or automatic; on the contrary, I think it is because to not be afraid is a radical act which requires choice and commitment. 

But I also think if it is there so frequently it is something that we are called to. If we are to love, if we are to seek justice then we must find ways to be less afraid. Less afraid of each other, less afraid of the world. And we must find ways to communicate that lack of fear, so that those we encounter don't assume we are afraid of them and then maybe in turn may be a little less afraid of us, too. 

So my dream, my vision, my prayer for each of us and all of us: as individuals, as communities, as a world is that we step out with a little less fear of each other and allow that to inspire the ways we live together. Love and justice will follow where our fearlessness leads.

Christmas Poem 2022

Generally, I love Christmas carols and am prepared to park my reservations about the frankly dubious theology in many of them, and sing along with more enthusiasm than talents which is, I understand, exactly how they are meant to be sung.

That doesn’t mean I am averse to picking apart the dodgy theology in between times though!

I have long taken issue with Away in a Manger: a carol doubtless loved and loathed in roughly equal measure depending on whether your general experience of children’s nativity plays gives you a warm fuzzy feeling or makes you cringe.

My own particular issue with it relates specifically to verse two, line two: “but little Lord Jesus no crying he makes”

I witnessed two babies being born this year; one cried at birth, the other didn’t. In the early days, that second baby's survival hung in the balance and he spent a number of weeks in neonatal intensive care. Thankfully he is now a healthy, happy baby … and he cries. While I am prepared to acknowledge the possibility, given the difficult circumstances of his birth, that Jesus was indeed a very poorly baby, I somehow don’t think that’s the point the carol writer was trying to make.

Aside from the very unhelpful implication that babies crying is somehow bad or sinful as opposed to just normal, healthy behaviour; my major issue with this line is it seems to want to mark Jesus out as different from expected human behaviour. Even here, in the season where we celebrate the incarnation, the docetic heresy, the one which denies the humanity of Jesus, rears its head.

I think, though it would of course be explicitly denied, in many subtle ways this ‘heresy’ is still very much present in much of our Christian thinking. While it is the idea that Jesus is “fully God” that perhaps most challenges the rational thinking parts of our brain, I wonder whether in many ways it is the idea that Jesus is “fully human” that we actually find more inherently challenging: if we mark Jesus out from babyhood as different and special, it gives us the excuse we need to shy away from his instruction to “go and do likewise”.

***

Small children played a significant part in my Christmas celebrations this year: and it was wonderful! There was lots of noise and mess and laughter. Perhaps inevitably, there was a little bit of crying at times too. It was all part of being fully human in the world.

***

All of which is a somewhat probably unnecessarily lengthy introduction to this year’s just-in-time Christmas poem:

***

The child cries

Because the child is human

And the child is hungry and wants to be fed

He cries to be nourished for the journey ahead

For the wine, and the fish and the broken bread

And the stars still look down

The child cries

Because the child is human

And the world is a confusing and scary place

He cries to seek the safety of a familiar face

From the depths of darkness, for the promise of grace

And the stars still look down

The child cries

Because the child is human

And the child wants to be noticed, and wants to be known

He cries to belong, to be wanted, to not be alone

For welcome to be offered, for love to be shown

And the stars still look down

And the child cries

Because the child is human

And the child is God.

Merry Christmas!

2022 Highlights

One of our conversations on New Year's eve evening, prior to the street erupting into slightly bonkers fireworks, was about looking back on the significant moments of the year. It didn't take long for me to realise that choosing one highlight of the year would be impossible because there was really quite a lot of competition.

Obviously, there have also been challenges along the way: I wouldn't have chosen to have my first brush with covid, there were very mixed feelings as I walked away from Carrs Lane, and it has certainly been hard at times to find signs of hope in the global and national political landscape. Plus, of course, quite a lot of mundanity in the mix too, including a constant refrain of not being as on top of admin and emails as I would ideally like to be! 

But here are a few of the things that immediately spring to mind that have been very special this year:

• The incredible privilege of being present at the births of two babies, an experience I will certainly never forget; and the ongoing privilege of watching them both grow and change, as well as becoming Godparent to one of them.  
• An absolutely amazing trip to Morocco and a wonderful wedding celebration: I know I am incredibly blessed to be invited into experiences such as these. It was also my first trip abroad for quite some time, and first time in Africa ever.
• There were also very enjoyable trips much closer to home: back to walking (part of) pilgrim cross after two years of only seeing these people in zoom squares, a lovely holiday in Wales, a beautiful 'festival of friendship' in Kintbury plus a few other trips and visits.
• A housewarming party bringing together people from all over the world and from different parts of my life. Plus lots of other gatherings, parties and cultural celebrations: these spaces where community is created and strengthened mean so much to me.
• Sharing in the news that a couple of friends who have been waiting a very, very long time were finally granted right to remain ending years of uncertainty and allowing them to get on with rebuilding their lives. There have been other good news stories I have been privileged to be part of too, most notably the little thrill every time a newly arrived child gets a school place.
• Performing with the Stories group and Welsh National Opera on the main stage at the REP to an audience of 500 school children was an incredible experience. There were other smaller performances through the year, including rounding off just before Christmas with the hilarity of panto.
• Being selected to carry the commonwealth baton, which despite my ambivalence about the commonwealth and its history, felt like quite an honour, and while I obviously don't do what I do for the recognition, I can't deny I appreciated the affirmation.
• Planned and impromptu visits from friends, some of whom I hadn't seen for a long time: after two years in which seeing friends was so severely restricted, I hope I never again take this for granted.
• Moving house (again) and settling in to a place I hope to be able to call home for the foreseeable future.

And perhaps most of all, in those times and in between times, all the many reminders that I am deeply loved and privileged to be surrounded by so many different wonderful people who are part of my life. Thank you to everyone who continues to journey with me!

2022 Reading List

When I started reading my third book of the year, I decided it might be interesting to keep a record of what I had read: and whether or not it would eventually make it to publication, the drafts folder of my blog seemed like as good a place to keep it as any. And hey now it is written, it might as well be published. So this is what I have read this year ...

Two Lives - Vikram Seth

Girl with a Pearl Earring - Tracy Chevalier

A Long Petal of the Sea - Isabel Allende

A Change of Climate - Hilary Mantel

The Pier Falls - Mark Haddon

Little Brother - Ibrahima Balde and Amets Arzallus Antia

The Turbulent Term of Tyke Tyler - Gene Kemp

Senor Vivo and the Coca Lord - Louis de Bernieres

In the Full Light of the Sun - Clare Clark

The Salt Path - Raynor Winn

The Silent Boy - Andrew Taylor

Resistance: A Songwriter's Story of Hope, Change and Courage - Tori Amos

The Wreck - Meg Kenneally

The Little Coffee Shop of Kabul - Deborah Rodriguez

Those Who are Loved - Victoria Hislop

The Remains of the Day - Kazuo Ishiguro 

The Vanishing Half - Brit Bennett

The Tea Girl of Hummingbird Lane - Lisa See

The Wall - John Lanchester

The Humans - Matt Haig

Resistance - Anita Shreve

My Name is Why? - Lemn Sissay

The History of Bees - Maja Lunde

Circle Song - Nawal El Saadawi (from God dies by the Nile and other Stories)

The Discomfort of Evening - Marieke Lucas Rijneveld

The Echo Chamber - John Boyne

The Dictionary of Lost Words - Pip Williams

Radio Silence - Alice Oseman

Klara and the Sun -  Kazuo Ishiguro

When God was a Rabbit - Sarah Winman

The Second City Trilogy - Steven Camden

Redemption Song and Other Stories - The Caine Prize for African Writing 2018

Spanish Steps - Tim Moore

Summer - Ali Smith

The Memory of Love - Aminatta Forna

Hope in the Dark - Rebecca Solnit

The Girl in the Picture - Denise Chong

Home - Salman Rushdie

The Girl on the Train - Paula Hawkins

The Kindness of Strangers - Edited by Don George

No Friend but the Mountains - Behrouz Boochani

I have also read far too many social media posts! I sometimes wonder just how many more good books I could read if I didn't waste quite so much time on twitter ... but there you have it, my reading list for the year

And the Word was God

This week, it was my turn to lead our bible reflection. We usually reflect on the following Sunday's gospel, but, it being Christmas, I probably had a choice of readings, and it may seem strange that I opted for the prologue of John: but I love this reading. 

I love it for its mystery and complexity. I also love it because, as a lover of language and someone passionate about words, God being identified as the word deeply appeals to me. It is a text so rich and deep and complex that of course we cannot unpack it fully in a short space of time so I am just going to focus on that single word, the word.

The original Greek word in the text is logos, and I have commonly heard it said that “the word” is an over simplified translation of a word that holds much deeper meanings within it. In some ways, I would take issue with that, because I think “word” also holds complexities within it: but the point that a word from one language cannot be adequately translated into another still stands.

I remember when I first read this text in French where logos is commonly translated as “le verbe”: a small change that instantly implies something slightly different, something more active. Hearing that made me reflect on my understanding of the text. I think it would be fascinating to know how other languages translate it, and to think about how each translation might shape how we hear this reading.

The word that is God also cannot be adequately translated into our language or culture: our understanding of God is, I would argue, all the richer when we understand that all the words we use can only ever be an approximation: at its best, describing God as the word could perhaps help remind us of this: In the beginning was the untranslatable word.

Logos could, I am told also be translated as “meaning”: and again, if we put this in place in the text I think it adds another layer to how we hear and understand this text: If each Christmas we heard the familiar words: “In the beginning there was meaning” and “the meaning was made flesh”, or “the meaning was made tangible or real” would it change how we understand what John is trying to say?

Apparently the etymology of logos goes back to ‘to pick up, to collect, to gather together’. The gathering of our thoughts of our sense of meaning. Words.

Linguists have long argued about whether language describes reality or whether it creates reality and I suspect while there are probably people on both extremes, consensus is that it does something of both. The words we hear and the language we use shape our understanding of the world around us as well as being the means by which we describe our reality and experiences. There are lots of examples of the ways people speak or the different words they have access to leading to them understanding things differently. There are also plenty of examples of how language is used both unintentionally and deliberately to shape people’s thinking and their action and behaviours.

If God is the word, God is present in how we do both of these things. God as word, God as language helps us to describe and make sense of our experiences and our reality; but God as word, God as language also shapes and co-creates our reality, but perhaps in ways that are subtle and unnoticed, much the way we don’t always notice how the words we use are shaping our sense of our selves and our world.

And then sometimes, we also need to challenge the way words are used: or allow and accept them being challenged by others; and through those challenges to our language, subtle shifts occur in how we understand the world. The same is undoubtedly true of the word that is God: there are times when we also need to challenge, or allow ourselves to be challenged about the way God is used too, and allow our understanding to shift.

So perhaps, just as having access to more words allows us to better describe and make sense of and create our reality; perhaps growing and deepening our connection to God, gives us the same gift.

Next Steps

I am on the move again... because just before Christmas is an eminently sensible time to do that, right?

This time I am moving into the house which, several years ago, was bought to be entrusted to Hope Projects to house destitute asylum seekers. We always knew the gift of this space to others might, at some point, have to come to an end, and as circumstances have changed, this is the right next move. 

I would be lying if I didn't admit to having had to process some sadness that we can't continue to support Hope Projects in this way. I continue to really believe in their model of supporting people but also challenging the injustice that leave people in need of that support. I know some of those who have benefitted from living in their houses, including ours, and I know the tangible difference they make to people's lives.

But I hope and trust that the last six years of support has made a difference to the individuals, and to the organisation. I hope that perhaps something of those early news stories offered some inspiration to others, not necessarily to do the same, but to believe in the possibility of making choices that make a difference. And I hope and trust that I am continuing to make choices which, in other ways, still benefit those who are victims of the hostile environment.

I am aware that there is going to quite some adjustment to this latest move. This house has been, in some ways part of my story for a number of years and yet it has always been, intentionally, kept at arms length. Until a few weeks ago, I hadn't set foot in this house for six years. It was our house, but other people's "home". 

So now, once all the packing and moving and unpacking has been done, the next task is, in this house, to create "my home". I am sure it won't take long. I am looking forward to discovering the community that will be created, the stories that will be celebrated and the memories that will be made here, in this space.

A month in the life

A little over a year ago I wrote a post about a "typical" week in my life, or if not a typical one then at least a randomly selected specific one. It occurred to me that it might be interesting, a year or so on, to repeat the exercise, but as life is so varied, and every week so different, this time I have gone for edited highlights of "a month in the life". It's probably too long to be of interest to anyone but me, but for what it is worth, this was my November: 

Week 1: Tuesday 1st - Sunday 6th November  

Tuesday was an odds and ends jobs sort of a day including a trip to my old haunt St Chad's Sanctuary to pick up school uniform: it was nice to see a few familiar faces I hadn't caught up with for a while and I did also fit in a cup of tea in a coffee shop with a friend. Then I had back to back zooms in the evening which used to be normality but is very rare these days. Wednesday took me to London with some of the stories group for the "Lift the Ban" coalition gathering. By some minor miracle everyone arrived on time, it was a lovely but long day: extended even further by the fact that the person who told us they knew exactly where the restaurant they wanted to eat at was, and that it really wasn't far, may not have been as confident in their London geography as they thought! Thursday was another pretty busy day as I had a Birch Staff Meeting in the morning before going directly to run the Birch family drop-in, followed by another meeting, but Friday was a bit quieter with only admin to do in the morning ahead of the Stories group session which was an art workshop with Celebrating Sanctuary. It was particularly nice to see one or two people who hadn't been able to be around for a while. From there I went directly to see friends for a very lovely evening chatting and, due to the train strike that wasn't, ended up staying over. I had deliberately kept the weekend fairly empty ahead of what I knew was going to be another busy week ahead.

Week 2: Monday 7th - Sunday 13th November

Even by my standards, this week was set to be exceptionally busy. We had two school visits all day Monday and Wednesday: one in a primary school, one in a high school; one in a school who are already good friends of the Stories project, one to a school we were visiting for the first time: both went really well and I was, as ever, humbled by the incredible people I get to work alongside. From Monday's visit it was straight in to the evening Stories session where we began exploring the peculiarly British cultural phenomenon that is panto! Between the two, on Tuesday, a group of us went to Liverpool for the Churches Together in Britain and Ireland conference where we led a workshop, and contributed to the panel as well as to lots of informal conversations, and one of the group did an outstanding job of selling a box full of poetry books! Expected travel disruption meant the NACCOM conference on Thursday had moved online and while I was disappointed not to be meeting people in person, in the midst of everything else going on this week perhaps it wasn't such a bad thing. It did make for a very intensive day of screen time, and by the evening I had realised I definitely should have done other things during the breaks rather than trying to fit in other computer jobs! I was back out all day on Friday, including a meeting with my supervisor for Birch, and our second art workshop with the Stories group. We were due to be going to Doncaster on Saturday but I think it was the right call to do that particular encounter by zoom instead. On Saturday evening Welsh National Opera who we had worked with last year had given us tickets to their Opera "Migrations" which was absolutely stunning as well as deeply meaningful; and a small group of us went to a classical concert at the town hall on Sunday afternoon too so a very cultured weekend! 

Week 3: Monday 14th - Sunday 20th November

This week was, at least partly by design, much quieter. It is the nature of my life and work that some weeks are exceptionally busy and that is made manageable by the balance of the weeks with a bit more space in them: both to relax, and to catch up on the much needed admin tasks. On Monday I spent several hours meeting lots of newly arrived families and collecting information for the next round of helping with accessing school places; a task which took up a good chunk of Thursday morning as well. On both Monday and Friday we were playing with panto in the Stories sessions which involved a whole lot of fun and laughter! The Birch drop-in session was quiet but did include offering some much needed emotional support to some of the mums. And on Friday I had a meeting over doughnuts and another over delicious falafel wraps which was most excellent! Tuesday and Wednesday were both days almost entirely spent at home, partly catching up on jobs that desperately needed doing but with a very relaxed rhythm. I also had a friend staying throughout throughout this week while he recovered from an operation he'd had the previous week, so it was good that I was around a bit more and I very much enjoyed his company and many good conversations. A couple of evenings other friends popped round too, to see him or me or both. Saturday was a fairly busy day with an early start for a (sadly not well attended but you can but try) coffee morning about hosting, then lunch with prospective hosts, and then I had a really lovely afternoon having been invited to the birthday party of delightful twin girls who were turning 13. After a lazy Sunday morning the week was topped off by an afternoon of comedy and a visit to the beautiful Birmingham Progressive Synagogue.

Week 4: Monday 21st - Sunday 27th November

It was a thoroughly dull, grey and wet start to the week so in a way I was glad I had a meeting on Monday afternoon that forced me to get out of the house, because even if I got rather cold and damp, on balance, I always feel better when I get out and about. Usually, the Stories group would be meeting on a Monday afternoon but our venue isn't available for a few weeks and as there are plenty of other activities to keep us occupied we are taking a break from that regular session. On Tuesday, among various other things, I was at St Chad's Cathedral for a planning meeting for the next edition of pray24brum, and having not been able to get to the last meeting, it was lovely to be back in person with this little group. There were as always, a million emails to catch up on, conversations to have, things to organise and various meetings to attend, both in person and online: including the Migration Forum meeting, a "cathedral conversations" event, a meeting with a councillor and another about school admissions. I also went to not one but two poetry / spoken word events: the wonderful Steven Camden, aka Polarbear, who we worked with last year; and one of my all-time favourite poets, Brian Bilston. Plus on Saturday we had tickets to see nativity at the REP which I very much enjoyed even if I did spend a lot of it shushing small children! In the midst of all that, probably the most significant thing to happen this week was handing in the notice on my current flat and setting things in train for my next move which, all being well, will take place just before Christmas.

Week 5: Monday 28th November - Wednesday 30th

Monday was a fairly full day of mostly school related shenanigans as I continue the process of trying to help lots of newly arrived children into school. The absolute joy and excitement of the children at the prospect was well worth the slight sense of overwhelm when I was surrounded by families! But I was glad of a walk home in the fading sunlight to clear my head. I was expecting to spend a chunk of Tuesday moving a Birch guest in with their hosts but, as can sometimes happen last minute, the need for emergency accommodation was averted, which meant I had more time for a few other jobs, including continuing the school mission, but with an intentionally slightly less busy feel to the day. I rounded off the month with a day that included a helpful conversation with the person I meet to help me to reflect on and process the many experiences and stories I hold with my friends in the Stories group, then called in briefly to Carrs Lane before a fabulous school visit in the afternoon to round off the month.

And now December awaits. Bring it on!

Do we need God?

This blog post first came about after a conversation (quite some months ago now) with a very good friend for whom I have a huge amount of respect. 

She does good things in the world. She cares about humanity. She does not have a faith.

I am not entirely sure how we got on to the topic of religion but somewhere in the mix was what I took to be a very genuine question, which went something along the lines of "what is the point of religion and do we really need God?" It is not the first time I have faced such a question: from someone else or at times even from myself. 

I had no immediately coherent answer to offer. And not only because it was late in the evening and I was tired.

She is just as capable as me of doing good in the world. According to my theology, her chances of finding herself in heaven (if it exists) are just as high as mine. I am not somehow her superior ... there is nothing about me that is better than her because I have a faith and she doesn't. I have friends of many faiths and of none who have just as much to offer to the world as I do. 

And to be honest I can find much to criticise about the role of religion in our lives, communities, world. Over the years I have cried many tears over the church and its (as I perceive them) failings.   

And yet it is no secret that my faith remains important to me. I wanted to be able to try and explain why. 

I guess I started writing this as my attempt to do so: to myself, to her, and to the world. Many weeks later, more recent conversations with another friend prompted me to try and draw my scattered thoughts together. I have struggled to do so, because the mystery I call God defies explanation and eludes description in mere words, but this is my best attempt.

It comes with multiple disclaimers. My faith and my theology have changed significantly over time so if this stands as a (slightly blurry) reflection of where I am right now; it may not sum up where I was yesterday, nor where I will be tomorrow. Nor does it reflect a set of beliefs of anyone else or any institution: my faith has been shaped by my experiences of several Christian denominations but has also been worked out through reflection, conversation and encounter so doesn't sit easily in any of the pre-designed boxes different churches present to us and I like to hope that I would be seen as mildly heretical by at least most models of church. And just in case anyone is in any doubt, my explanation or defence of my own faith does not hold within it any criticism of anyone else's journey along this very winding road we call life. 

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Undoubtedly, part of my reason for being an adult with Christian faith is that it was the faith I was introduced to as a child. I have no recollection of a time before church was part of my life. I do, though, have fairly clear recollections of the first times church was an active choice. 

At some point as a (probably slightly precocious) primary school child, I decided I would rather go to church than to Sunday school: I have no idea, now, what drew me to sit through the probably fairly dull church services instead of doing colouring in ... these days, I much prefer Sunday School! More significantly, when I was in my early teens, my parents stopped going to church. It was no longer something we were expected to do as part of our weekly routine as a family. If I wanted to be part of this thing, it became my own responsibility. I sometimes joke that going to church was my teenage rebellion. As my faith has developed and I have understood more about who I believe Jesus to be, I have realised maybe it wasn't as much of a joke as I thought.

My faith today is unrecognisable from the nascent faith I had then: my journey has taken me far from what I would probably describe as "dull, bog-standard Anglicanism" and the church which was such a haven for my fourteen-year-old-self would undoubtedly now be a place which I would find intensely frustrating ...  but the essence of perhaps the most significant aspect of why my faith still matters does seemingly date to those days, though I certainly wouldn't have articulated it thus at the time. 

I was an unhappy teenager. At home, though I never questioned the love of my family, I carried a deep resentment about being moved away from a place where I had convinced myself I'd have been happier; and school was a fairly miserable experience where I was torn between the desperate desire to fit in and the desperate desire to be true to the person I was who didn't. And then there were hormones and the general unease that probably afflicts all teenagers as they grow out of being children long before they grow into being adults.

Church gave me the incredibly precious gift of being a place where I didn't have to "fit in" in order to belong and a place where somewhere deep within I felt like I had inherent value, just as I was. I associated church, and therefore God, as a place of safety and acceptance. I have changed a lot since those days, as has my faith, but I still deeply believe that, at its best, an experience of God is an experience of learning that you can belong and have value and be loved, just the way you are.

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The world can be a very dark place. Throughout history, and in the world we now inhabit, we can scarcely fail to notice the destructive capacity of humanity: the myriad ways in which people can commit acts of utter evil against each other, and even against ourselves. All too often there can seem to be so much to make us angry and so little in the world that inspires hope.

We have put our planet on a collision course for climate catastrophe. Dictatorial regimes and human rights abuses abound. Conflicts are proliferating. Far-right ideologies are increasingly unchecked and accepted in the mainstream. The rich and powerful continue their love affair with an economic system which thrives on an ever widening divide between the haves and have nots.

Many of the core messages which surround us, both the explicit and the implied are ones which want us to believe that the only thing that matters is looking out for ourselves and our own interests, or, potentially, by extension, those perceived as belonging to our group or sharing our identity. They are messages which tell us the pursuit of material wealth is the route to happiness, that we will find our worth in what we possess. They are messages which tell us the weakest and most vulnerable are at best, not our problem or responsibility, and at worst to be cast as scapegoats, blamed for a variety of social ills and subjected to further suffering. They are messages seeking to divide, telling us to fear or to hate those who are in any way different to ourselves.

Social pressure of this sort is insidious and, whatever we tell ourselves, nigh on impossible to entirely resist. We are products of the societies that form us. 

I do not want to believe this is all there is to the world. And for me it is God and the message of the gospels that allows me to hope in an alternative. I fear that without that sense of the divine, that sense of something beyond ourselves, I might just lose hope.

Faith is what gives me the strength to, however imperfectly, stand up as best I can to the rhetoric the world wants us to believe and to try to stand for something different. 

Faith is what makes me trust that, even when it doesn't feel like it, "the arc of the universe bends towards justice" (MLK)

Faith is what constantly reminds me that no human has any less worth or value than any other, that reminds me to stretch out a hand in warmth and welcome to the "other", because they are, as I am, loved and worthy of love. 

Faith is that which which ensures and assures me that good is possible. 

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For many years my life has involved a routine of prayer and specifically, times of silence integrated into my day. I struggle to articulate how or why but I remain completely convinced my life would look different without it. It is my space to be reminded, or to remind myself of the possibility of joy, hope, goodness and unconditional love even when they seem so far from the reality every time we switch on the news. I believe those reminders come from somewhere beyond myself.

The essence of my faith remains that God is and only can be love and nothing we do, nothing we are can exclude us from that unconditional love. The essence of my faith remains that, created in the image of God, we are called into the experience of love and called to offer it onwards and outwards to others. The essence of my faith is that we exist to love and to be loved. 

Others perhaps have a different explanation, but for me, my way of making sense of the world and holding on to the possibility of hope, is the existence of a mystery I choose to call God; a God who is and only can be love, a God who ensures there is always a force for good in the world, a God who flares or who flickers in the darkest of places. A God from whom I acknowledge religions, as much as the wider world, have ofttimes turned away. 

I don't think having a faith in God has made my life any easier: nor should it: there is plenty of challenge inherent in the gospels. But I think it has been one of the ways in which I have discovered a deep joy that exists despite, beyond and in the midst of the world with all its broken beauty. 

So back to those conversations with friends that inspired me to write this ... 

Does she need God? Does he? I don't know and it is not for me to say. 

But do I need God? ... Yes, I think I do.

What I have learned

It is just over a year since I signed the contract on this flat (the anniversary was Wednesday), and slightly less since I moved in. This has been the first time for a very long time I have lived alone; the only other time being my year abroad from university when I lived in a school in France. 

As I look back on the past year (and prepare to move on again), I have been reflecting on some of the things I have discovered and learned. Here are a few snippets from those thoughts:

• It will come as no surprise to anyone, least of all me that I am still very much a people person. I love spending time with other people; both in group settings and one-to-one with friends. I love the fact that I have so many different, wonderful people in my life; and community and belonging are definitely important to me. Much of my people time is in other places, and I love hosting guests here too. But having my own space does, it turns out, also really suit me: I do also enjoy my own company and in between my very peopled existence, I have been very much appreciating time spent alone.
• My life is rich in variety and no two days are the same, which is exactly the way I want it to be. Having said that, I have found that having some elements of routine or structure in life do matter ... and so is the flexibility to bend or break those routines when necessary. I appreciate the fixed points, both external and self-imposed around which my life is organised. As a rule, I have intentionally kept the weekends having a distinct and different feel to them to weekdays too which feels like it is probably important.
• Before moving to Birmingham all those years ago, I was very unsure about how much I would enjoy life at the heart of a busy city: it turned out that I did, very much. It became my normality, and moving out into a residential area has been a reminder of some of the ways it was quite a distinctive place to live and things I was missing there: little things, mostly: such as having easy access to a proper supermarket that isn't just set up for convenience foods, and just the very different feel to the streets I walk around.
• Another significant change from being in the city centre revolves around transport and I acknowledge having lost a level of convenience on that front: many of my activities still take place in the city centre or now involve significantly more travel. It has meant some earlier starts, more time at bus stops and sometimes finding myself with time to kill between activities when I previously would have nipped home but it isn't worth coming back here. But I have also learned that you can get used to most things fairly quickly and I have adapted to this now just being the reality: I rarely find myself comparing it to an alternative.
• I've let myself know that it is ok to resort to 'stick something in the oven' convenience foods some of the time, and I've found batch cooking is a must since living by myself. It's also nice to have visitors which can be a prompt to make more effort ... but sometimes it is also nice to put in lots of effort to cook a really nice meal, just for yourself. 
• I am aware I am extremely privileged with the amount of space I have to myself here. Having my bedroom as a space distinct from my living and working space is definitely a gift I have come to appreciate. Admittedly, I haven't entirely kept technology out as I do still take my phone (maybe that's a next step!) but I have never taken my laptop in, nor many other things, and I have recognised the benefits of generally keeping my sleeping space distinct from the rest of life.
• One of the things I think others, perhaps more than me although I too sensed the risk, thought when I moved here was that I might not be able to switch off from work and the things that keep me busy. But while it does remain true that I lead a very busy life, and yes, I do occasionally have moments of being utterly overwhelmed and feeling like I am not on top of everything I need or want to do; actually, I have, I think quite effectively been able to build down time into my life. And if some of that is meaningless time wasting by scrolling through social media and the like, it has also included reading plenty of books, spending time with friends, arts and crafts, taking advantage of having green space at the end of the road, and plenty of other ways to relax.

I'm sure there are plenty of other things I could say, but those are my disparate thoughts at this particular point in time.